He Was My Friend
by Pixel Whipped
Summary: Clint reflects on his actions during Civil War II by visiting a familiar friend's funeral. [Comics]


Freedom wasn't the first thing that Clint really wanted. The hostility against the Hulk was devastating. The man never did anything wrong willingly, so the fact that these people were so dark and mean was painful. They didn't know him like Clint knew him. They never knew the good doctor, or what he was capable of. All they saw was the monster that hid under the surface, itching to be free. The man that, very well, could take out an entire city and never think twice about it. But Bruce Banner was not a monster.

He was a man of science; a man of high intellect who wanted nothing more than to save the world. He was a man who was tired of hiding, fighting for nothing. What was he fighting for? A cure? An end to his misery?

Probably the latter. When he'd called Clint into the lab and asked him to do what was necessary, it was a hard decision to make; but one that was - for all intents and purposes - needed for the world to go on. It was his decision, and a suicide was out of the question. It had to be this way. It just seemed like the decision was in poor taste. Clint knew why Bruce asked him to do it; he was the only one who wouldn't think twice about it. The only one who could recognize the signs and take the shot without questioning it.

Except the repercussions from such an event were devastating.

He'd already lost his family...now he was responsible for the death of his best friend and one of his trusted allies.

He'd spent weeks wallowing in prison before Matt Murdock secured a release for him. Murdock said it was a blessing, but Clint felt like it was a curse. To go out into public and be praised as a hero for killing a man he trusted - it was nauseating and painful. Yet, Clint would put on a smile, and act like he did nothing wrong - because he was still an Avenger, even if he wasn't a hero for his cause.

When news spread about a protest at the funeral, his heart ached. How could anyone do that to such a wonderful man? He dropped the hood on his jacket and wandered down the streets of the busy city, knowing full well what was going to happen now. Protest signs that read 'Clint Barton is a hero' and 'Justice for Clint', he'd very casually looked passed until he came to the large doors of the church. It was ironic, in a sense - they'd met demi gods and fake gods, and here they were in a church...the one place that none of them belonged.

The refuse wasn't enough. The calamity outside was weighing heavy on him. He only hoped that someone could hear what he'd say. People didn't want him there, he was a pariah. He deserved that for what he'd done, but if they only knew what Bruce had asked him to do...but legends tell that victims sell...and he'd play the part.

He stood at the podium, hands holding so tightly to the wooden surface that his fingers went numb. Where would he even start? Bruce wouldn't want his funeral to be some kind of political statement, but this was all a bunch of nonsense! Coughing slightly, Clint began. 'I-know most of you don't want me here. Some of you see me was a hero and some of you see me as the villain. The truth is, I don't deserve any praise for what I did. And I can't accept it, either. Bruce Banner was my friend. He was my trusted partner in all things, and the one that kept me alive as long as he had. Bruce was nothing but kind, nothing but generous to this world, and he never wanted to hurt anyone.'

'So when I see your signs saying I'm a hero, I have to turn you down. I have to turn my head and look away. Because I'm not a hero for killing an innocent man. I'm a hero for helping save the world on many occasions. I'm a hero for giving you a place to come home to. But not for killing my best friend. He wouldn't have wanted this. All he wanted was peace. All he wanted was a moment's reprieve from the darkness that was inside his head. You don't know him like we did. Our team was assembled with the utmost care and consideration to all parties involved. If you knew him like we did, I'm sure that the signs wouldn't be as prominent.'

'While wandering the countryside, I couldn't help but hear stories about all the awful things he'd done to your families. About how he'd killed, how he'd destroyed without prejudice. But I want you to know that wasn't Bruce. Bruce is the unfortunate recipient of a heartless curse, one that was bestowed upon him in his eagerness to create a better world. He didn't ask for this. He didn't want it, but it's part of him. And he couldn't cope with that. So here we are now.'

'But he wouldn't have wanted this to be a political statement,' Clint stopped talking long enough to turn to the casket and stare at the body of his friend. It looked the same as the day he'd - done it. 'You were my friend, Bruce. And you still are. I hope that somewhere, wherever you end up, you might be able to find it in your heart to forgive me for what I did. Because I won't rest until I get a sign.'

With a quiet and hesitant breath, he stepped off the stage, fully prepared for all the boos and shouts from the people outside. Now it was his cross to bear; and bear it, he would.


End file.
